"The Petri dishes…"
John paused to rein in his breathing.
"…on top of the f-f-fridge…"
The good doctor mashed his forehead against a row of books.
"…are…sacrosanct," he finally whispered.
Sherlock bit the hair at the back of John's head and pumped his hips slowly three times, once for each syllable in the final word.
John groaned loudly with each unhurried hump. Only once he was done making noise did he clap a hand over his own mouth and hiss, "Shhhhhh."
Sherlock just grunted.
Both took a moment to count their heartbeats and toy with the concept of aneurysm.
John gained control of himself first and said firmly, "Sh…Sherlock Holmes, you are a…logophile."
The man so named moaned softly in delight and delicately pulled his cock from his lover's arse. After a moment he took hold of the hot and heavy thing and placed the head inquisitively between John's arse cheeks. John encouraged reentry by spreading his legs as widely as the trousers pooled at his ankles would allow.
Sherlock pushed his cock back inside John with utmost care. Withdrew again. Sought readmission once more. This continued for three penetrations total, one for each syllable in logophile.
With the final thrust leaving the good detective buried deep, both men stilled.
John took a minute to firm his grip on the bookshelf in front of him and to think, think, think damn it. Three syllables was not cutting it. At this rate he'd be dead of hypoxemia before either of them climaxed, and he was not going to die in the back corner of this library with a hard-on with which he could dig to China. No. If John was going to perish with his pants at his ankles and a cock up his arse he was going to do it with a flaccid dick and some come dribbled down his front, thank you.
"The rules…to this…fuck-awesome…game…are draconian."
Behind him John felt Sherlock shiver a little. Four syllables.
After a moment spent gently hyperventilating Sherlock was again in motion, undulating those pretty hips as slowly as he could, which was very. Four nirvanic near-withdrawals and inserts later, Sherlock dropped his forehead to John's shoulder and waited.
When John could suspire again he whispered, "The angle…of that last…thrust…was incan-fucking-descent."
Eyes squinched tightly shut, Sherlock had to count the syllables twice in his head before his brain would let him get it right.
Constrained by his half-mast trousers, Sherlock shuffled closer to John, draped his front along John's back. With a happy grunt he started to rut against his lover's—
Noise in the distance stilled both men instantly.
After a half minute each took a deep, sonorous breath.
But for the two dozen grim-faced portraits staring down at them from the walls of the Duke Humfrey's library, and except for the partially-deaf Oxford librarian waiting patiently in his office fifty metres away, and barring the billions of dust mites in the musty volumes surrounding them, John and Sherlock were completely alone.
And suddenly, apparently, so was John's brain. He found he could not wrest from it even one word. And then, like some sort of bibliothecal angel Sherlock pressed his lips to the rim of John's ear and lustily sighed.
John's throat was full of enough dust to stop the breathing of a lesser man but John Watson is never lesser. He's a rock solid soldier and surgeon and he would damn well die laters. Now it was time to think, think of a five syllable word.
What? What did you just say?
Well yes of course, being a medical man John has at his disposal no end of multi-syllabic words, several of which he tried deploying early on in this little divertissement.
It seems transoesophageal echocardiogram was deemed ineligible ("That's two words John,"), and then pneumo-noul-trami-croscopic-silico-volcano-coniosis was similarly disregarded ("I'm a genius, but even I don't know everything." "Git." "Cheat." "Idiot."), and after John complained and Sherlock threatened withdrawal, the good doctor apologized with alacrity and promised to follow the rules, such as they were: Use the word appropriately, and for every syllable, the lagniappe was one balls-deep thrust.
Anyway, five…five…five syllables. John wracked his brain, but being as he was possibly suffering from hypercarbia now, it resolutely failed to—
Sherlock slid an arm around John's waist, snugged his long frame closer.
"You…my…lanky love…have a beautifully…terpsichorean body."
That dancer's physique trembled briefly against the good doctor and then, with a quickly indrawn breath, Sherlock started to leisurely pump his hips.
By the end of the fifth thrust they were each shhhhhhing the other, John had spread his legs as wide as his trousers would let him, and he gripped the bookshelf in front of him so hard his knuckles went white.
Again, everyone took a moment to remember how to breathe. Then some doctors took a little longer because some doctors like torturing some detectives when they can. Finally, after nearly a full minute of silence a certain detective's thighs were shaking so hard you could hear his belt buckle chattering to itself. Its tiny echo sounded as if a petite ghost rattled chains somewhere in library shadow.
"More…John…dear…god…more…" said the oscillating detective in a low-grunted series of one syllable words.
Okay, John needed six syllables, six, six. He was not sure he even knew a second five syllable word at this point much less one with half a dozen. He was not the genius here for god's sake, he wasn't like his—
Sherlock shivered from head to toe again because he could damn well feel the light bulb go on over John's head.
By the end of the fifth thrust John was softly banging his head against the shelf in front of him, and Sherlock was panting prettily.
"…my authoritarian darling…"
John wasn't sure if Sherlock's arm tightened in pleasure at the sobriquet or simply its syllable count.
It didn't matter, six thrusts later and they were both partially blind due to a lack of blood to their ocular armamentaria.
"…our compatibility has been…experimentally proven…"
Six times Sherlock's cock nearly slid right on out of John's arse and six times Sherlock thrust it right back on in there. At this point, Sherlock's belt buckle, his legs, John's teeth, and the entire book shelf were tremulous as leaves in a jocund wind.
"…and though…this…may…be…an oversimplification on my part …"
Seven, seven, seven beautiful times Sherlock rammed home between the cheeks of John's toothsome arse.
"…you've…shown me…that…in many ways…heterosexuality…is overrated."
Neither of them is sure if Sherlock ever got to the eighth thrust but really it didn't matter. They were both yelling too loud for anyone to have the presence of mind to count anyway. Only afterward, as John tried wiping come off a hundred year old volume of Frankenstein while he giggled did Sherlock hiss, "Shhhhhh."
The incomparable Mirith Griffin (read her, read her) said sacrosanct, terpsichorean, and pneumo-noul-trami-croscopic-silico-volcano-coniosis and here I am (by the way, FF won't publish that word without the dashes, go figure). This is for you darlin'. P.S. Yes, I tried using multi-syllabic words through this recitation. Why say breathe when you can say suspire, I always promulgate. P.P.S. I promised the sex and multi-chapter fics would return today. Well here's the sex. The multi-chapter fics (with sex!) start Monday.
MORE! I'm no longer publishing on FFnet as they don't want NC-17 content, so please visit atlinmerrick dot livejournal dot com if you'd like to read more, or Tumblr or Twitter, and eventually everything will be on AO3—please follow!